


In Your Dreams (Whatever They Be)

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Pregnancy (mentioned as a possibility), Slut Shaming, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, elias being a creep, season 1 timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29637651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: In Jon’s dream, Naomi demands to know why he won’t help her; in the waking world, Jon’s lips part around a wounded animal whimper. Elias smiles.“Shh,” he murmurs, stroking the back of his hand across Jon’s cheek.*The Archivist has begun to dream. Elias decides to observe in person.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 155





	In Your Dreams (Whatever They Be)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m under a lot of stress right now, and as is tradition, I’ve decided to take it out on Jon. 
> 
> Huge thanks to fatal_drum for the always excellent beta job!
> 
> Terms that Elias uses for Jon’s anatomy: breasts, tits, clit, cunt.

_“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you_  
 _Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you_  
 _But in your dreams whatever they be_  
 _Dream a little dream of me”_  
The Mamas & the Papas — Dream A Little Dream Of Me

  
The Archivist is sleeping. 

That in itself is not unusual, although Jon really doesn’t get enough sleep at the best of times. Tonight, however, the circumstances are special. 

Three weeks ago, Naomi Herne gave a statement _“regarding the events following the funeral of her fiancé, Evan Lukas.”_ Ever since then, Jon has been dreaming of her, calling for help from an open grave while he stands, powerless to do anything but watch. Elias has seen the dream, knows how it clutches Jon’s sleeping mind, how he wakes each morning, shaken by the realization that he’s had that _same dream_ again. Knows that Jon is worried he’s losing his grip, but too proud and too defensive of his reputation to tell anyone about it.

Elias has enjoyed observing the dream from afar. But tonight Jon stayed at work late—later even than usual—and decided that going home was too much trouble. At just after one in the morning, he stretched out on the cot in Document Storage, and fell into an exhausted sleep. 

Now he is dreaming, and Elias means to see it in person. 

There is nobody else in the Institute, of course, as Elias walks downstairs to the ground floor, and then descends the narrower stairway to the Archives. He’s quite sure Jon had no idea that he was still in the building—nor should he have any reason to think Elias might be—but he had an inkling that Jon might sleep here tonight. Nothing concrete, just extrapolation based on previous behavior. Jon is predictable when he’s deep in a case; his lengthening hours in the office, increasingly waspish demeanor, and substitution of endless cups of tea for actual _food,_ were all obvious precursors. 

He isn’t particularly careful to be quiet while he walks through the darkened Archives, the occasional floorboard creaking underfoot. There’s nobody to hear him but Jon, who is already sunk into a dream of the Lonely, secluded in its cold embrace and unlikely to wake easily. In fact, that’s one of the things Elias wants to determine: how deeply his Archivist’s consciousness is subsumed by the Eye, this early in the process of his making. 

Elias feels a little thrill of anticipation as he eases open the door to the Document Storage room. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to directly observe an Archivist dreaming; he never dared with Gertrude. And while he’s been able to see Jon’s dreams these past weeks, the limitation of his sight means he hasn’t seen how Jon looks _while_ he’s dreaming. 

The room is dark, and Elias can _hear_ Jon more clearly than he can see him, breath hitching as if in distress. Elias considers for a moment, then steps outside and switches on one of the overhead lights in the Archives. The light streams in through the door, enough illumination for Elias to see, but not enough to disturb someone’s sleep. Elias doesn’t think it would wake Jon in this state, but better to proceed with caution. 

Jon is sprawled on the narrow cot, blankets kicked down to the end of the bed. He’s wearing the same white shirt he wore all day, though with the throat and the cuffs unbuttoned. His trousers are folded over the back of a chair that he seems to be using as a bedside table, along with a chest binder in a dark nude tone; he at least has sense enough not to wear it to bed. There is something charmingly vulnerable about seeing Jon like this, his thin, bare legs, one hand fisted near his face while the other lies limp by his side. His eyes are closed, but his expression is far from peaceful; an unhappy frown twists his eyebrows, and between those hitching breaths he sometimes swallows hard, his head tossing restlessly. 

Elias sits down on the chair by the bed, and skims his thoughts along the top of Jon’s consciousness. The dream is right there, foggy and all-encompassing, leaving nothing else in Jon’s awareness—not even the knowledge that he _is_ dreaming. Likely that will come someday—the lovely and unique horror of _knowing_ he is in a dream, yet still being unable to escape—but for now, he knows nothing except that he is trapped in an endless graveyard with a woman sobbing and pleading from a grave that might be hers. 

In Jon’s dream, Naomi demands to know why he won’t help her; in the waking world, Jon’s lips part around a wounded animal whimper. Elias smiles. 

“Shh,” he murmurs, stroking the back of his hand across Jon’s cheek. If it wakes him, Elias can claim he saw a light left on in the Archives and came to see if he was all right. Jon doesn’t stir, though, far too deep in his dream to be disturbed by Elias’ touch. 

Elias lets his fingers trail down over the jut of Jon’s jaw, to the column of his throat. Down, down, to the hollow of his clavicle, beneath the loose collar of his shirt. Jon’s skin is warm and dry, completely unremarkable and yet Elias finds himself peculiarly pleased by the feel of it. He brushes the edge of Jon’s shirt, the cotton gone soft with the day’s wear. The way the fabric falls across his body shows the outline of Jon’s chest beneath it, the small mounds of his breasts. 

“Hmm,” Elias says, considering. Does the Archivist recognize touch, in his insensate condition, even if he cannot consciously respond to it? He dips his thoughts into Jon’s sleeping mind once again: the dream has him held apart from the world, isolated as Forsaken itself. The effort to wake from it is, to Elias’ reckoning, beyond his capability. 

But can he _feel?_

Elias places both hands on Jon’s chest, molding them to the soft swell of his breasts. Massages them gently through the fabric, until he feels Jon’s nipples hardening under his touch. Jon’s breathing is growing quicker, his head twisting against the pillow, the physiological response obvious. Elias unbuttons his shirt with deft fingers, parts the folds of material to lay Jon’s torso bare. His tits are tiny, strewn with dark hair that continues down in a narrowing trail along his belly and beneath the waistband of his briefs. His nipples are dark, with swollen areolas that make them look larger than they are and set Elias’ mouth watering. This is a scientific inquiry, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it. 

He rubs a thumb over Jon’s right nipple, then pinches it between thumb and forefinger, feeling it stiffen even further. He does the same to the left nipple, rolls them both gently, then more firmly, intrigued by Jon’s responses. Jon’s lips part, his breath shallow and harsh, a dark blush painting itself up across his chest and throat to the high arches of his cheekbones. His body is certainly aware of how Elias is treating it. And as for his mind— 

Elias sinks his thoughts into the depths of Jon’s dream, and is delighted to find him panting and flushed, even as his eyes remain fixed on the open grave where Naomi Herne begs for mercy. His distress is more immediate now, a sharp tang of fear and disgust. He _knows_ he’s aroused, Elias realizes, and he thinks it’s _because_ of this. He thinks he’s watching a person’s terror and becoming excited by it. 

How _interesting._

Elias pinches Jon’s nipples harder, and is rewarded with a low, anguished moan. He bends his head and takes one in his mouth, sucks hungrily, laving his tongue around the stiff peak. When he releases it, Jon is whimpering, squirming against the thin mattress. He sucks the other nipple into his mouth and lets his tongue roll around it, bites gently at the tender flesh and hears Jon moan, louder now. Elias sits up and pushes Jon’s tits together, pressing his fingers into the soft flesh, enjoying the shine of his saliva on Jon’s nipples. 

In his dream, Jon is moaning aloud in counterpoint to Naomi’s sobs, pressing his thighs together as if hoping to stop the desperate arousal that coils through him. He is sick and disgusted, and he can do nothing to stop how good it feels. 

In the document storage room, Elias looks down the length of Jon’s body to where his legs are squeezing together unconsciously. There is a dark wet patch forming in the pale blue of Jon’s boxer briefs, and Elias can see the outline of his erect clit pushing against the fabric. He smiles. Jon might be horrified by what’s happening to him, but his body knows what it wants, and Elias knows it’s been some time since Jon has satisfied himself sexually. He would be doing his Archivist a favor, in fact; relieving some of the stress of his long work hours. 

When Elias brushes the back of one knuckle over Jon’s clit, the reaction is delightful. His hips jerk up, his whole body twisting so his tits bounce, a helpless whimper escaping him.

“Poor Jon,” Elias murmurs. “You really do need to indulge yourself more. Then maybe you wouldn’t be so desperate for it.” 

He runs two fingers down between Jon’s legs, stroking the lips of his cunt, hot through the soaked fabric. Jon’s legs splay wider, invitingly, and Elias can’t refuse. He tugs Jon’s briefs down his narrow hips as far as his knees. The salt smell of his arousal is strong, his cunt shining with slick, his clit swollen dark and jutting up from the neat thatch of his pubic hair. Elias dips his fingers back between those tender lips, gathering the slick and dragging up to circle the stiff nub of Jon’s clit. Jon whimpers again, beautifully responsive, his hips moving with Elias’ touch. In his dream, he drops to his knees and curls in on himself on the withered grass of the graveyard, the fog coiling cold and damp around him but doing nothing to cool the heat that courses through him. Naomi Herne weeps and begs, and Jon moans and ruts the air. 

Elias palms his own hard cock through his trousers as he slides two fingers into Jon’s hot, wet cunt. He’s _tight,_ his body clutching at Elias’ fingers as they move in and out. A third finger, and Jon is panting, his brow furrowed while his legs tense and his hips roll. Elias opens him up, slick and soft, his Archivist’s whole body flushed and lovely: an invitation. 

And why shouldn’t Elias accept it? 

He lowers his weight carefully onto the cot, keeping one foot on the floor as he straddles Jon’s thighs. His fingers are trembling faintly with excitement as he unzips; Elias doesn’t generally like to show such reactions, but there’s nobody here to see but Jon, who is lost in the glorious fearscape of his own mind. His cock is rigid when he pulls it out, pre-ejaculate already beading at the head. He lines it up with the slick furrows of Jon’s cunt and pushes in, biting his lip to stop from moaning aloud. 

Jon sheathes him perfectly, as if he was made for this. Elias presses deeper and deeper, until Jon has him swallowed to the root. In his dream, Jon whines and bucks as he feels something filling him, thick and deep, but there’s nobody—nothing—there, except the fog and the graves and Naomi Herne’s weeping. Elias fucks him slowly, gently, because he wants Jon to feel every moment of this, to draw out the desperate arousal that wracks him while he witnesses a woman’s fear. Because _he_ wants to remember this, the soft, tight embrace of his Archivist’s cunt, his body squirming mindlessly. Elias reaches up and strokes his breasts, pinches his nipples and twists them, and Jon whimpers, arches his back into the touch. 

Elias can feel that he’s getting close, so he slips his hand down to fondle Jon’s clit, strokes it hard and fast while Jon’s hips roll against him and Jon writhes on the wet grass of the graveyard. He feels the moment that Jon comes, his cunt clenching hard around Elias’ cock, his whole body stiffening with a whimper while in his dream he clutches fistfuls of dirt and cries out in ecstasy, his helpless sobs joining Naomi Herne’s in the silence of the graveyard. 

With a final thrust, Elias spends himself deep in his Archivist’s body, relishing the sensation of Jon here and in the dream. He pauses for a few moments, taking in the sight of Jon’s body beneath him, the feeling of his fear and self-disgust as the final throes of his orgasm leave him panting on the edge of the open grave. It’s quite overwhelming. 

He was correct, it seems: the dreams will not release Jon, even at this early stage of his development. 

Elias lets his softening cock slip out and tucks it away. He can see his spend oozing from Jon’s slick cunt, and he uses his fingers to push it back inside; better if there’s nothing to make Jon suspicious, and he’s not concerned about an unintended pregnancy. It’s highly unlikely to take, all things considered, and even if it did… 

Well, that would be very interesting indeed.

Carefully, he gets up from the mattress and sets things right: pulls Jon’s briefs up and buttons his shirt. He indulges himself with cupping his palm to Jon’s jaw for just a moment, relishing how Jon leans into Elias’ touch, even as his brow stays furrowed with the horror he’s experiencing. Just as it should be. 

Elias walks to the door of document storage, smiling to himself. This has been an interesting experiment. One that he may even wish to repeat, some time in the future. He switches off the light outside, plunging the Archives back into darkness.

“Sweet dreams, Jon,” he says, and closes the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @cuttoothed and on twitter @cut2th


End file.
